Shame.

You’re too fat. You’re the wrong age, the wrong height, the wrong size, the wrong shape, the wrong type, too slow, too quick for your own good. You’re too dark, too light. You’re “only pretty”. You’ll never look like that. You’re ugly as sin. You could be a model. You’re plain. You’re nothing without your makeup. The beard makes you look like a dork. You should go natural. You’re a pizza face. Cover that shit up. Why can’t you be bothered to take care of yourself?

You’re a wallflower. You’re too loud. You don’t speak up for yourself. You’re too defensive. Too passive. You’re too angry. Too aggressive. You’re much too sensitive. Too needy, too self-possessed, too self-obsessed. You’re an easy target. You put yourself on a pedestal. You’re too outspoken. Too independent. Too negligent. Too proud. Too humble. You’re too easily influenced. You’re too stubborn.  What’s your problem, anyway?

You need to speak out. You need to shut up. You need to stand out. You need to play dead. You ought to have the strength of your convictions. You should do as you’re told. Keep your nose clean. Be yourself. Don’t rock the boat. March to the beat of your own drummer. Why can’t you be a team player?

You haven’t slept with enough people. You’re a slut....unless you’re a stud. You’re an old maid. An old fart. You’re pussy-whipped. You’ve checked out. You’re too involved. You give too much. You’re completely useless. You’re a busybody. You’re always helping the wrong people, making the wrong decisions, doing the wrong thing, hanging with the wrong crowd. You need to get seen. You need to be invisible. You need the right things. All of them. Real people have the right things. The right house, the right track, the right career, the right connections, the right clothes, the right car. Wal-Mart is for the subnormals. Are you subnormal?

They saw you were weak. They didn’t like your friends. The way you dressed. Your bumper stickers. Your books. Your thoughts. The things you did. The things they imagined you did. You didn’t share their interests. Wrong faith, man, wrong practice on the wrong day. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You fought back. You tried to ignore them. You pointed them out. You asked for it. You flaunt it. You give it away for free, so they came and took as much as they wanted. What were you expecting?

Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. You shouldn’t need any help. You’re a parasite. You work too much. You’re lazy. You’re too young to understand. You’re too old to be making these kinds of mistakes. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re sitting on your talents. You should do something popular. Sell your soul on the open market. Make something unique. Take risks. Play it safe. You should have known better. You’re nothing but excuses. Just get over it. Why can’t you get your act together?

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Go Ahead.

Fall.

See if I care. 

I'll be laughing as I follow you 



all


the


way 


until you hit



BOTTOM.

Practice.

What does it mean to practice healing?

Like practicing faith, or a craft, or a trade, you learn how to do things right by doing a lot of things wrong. You observe yourself in the aftermath of your actions to see what worked and what didn't. You take what worked and graft it to your routine.

The process functions best when you can avoid beating the shit out of yourself for making mistakes in the first place.


I’ve been learning what it means to practice healing. I think of it this way:

A mistake is a stumble. Beating the shit out of yourself for failing to be perfect? That’s rewarding yourself with a face-plant on the concrete.

You commit an act of self-healing when you throw out your hands and catch yourself.


That takes practice.

I resist doing this simple act. I’ve practiced bouncing my head off the ground after every stumble and let me tell you, after 39 years of training, I am GOOD at it. Better than good: I’m AWESOME at inflating every mistake until it’s Kaiju-sized. My brain looks like Tokyo after Godzilla’s gone on a bender.

I practice healing when I accept the consequences of a mistake without using it as a means to diminish myself.

You are the sum of ALL your actions, words, gifts and blows, your slips, your tumbles, your moments in the sun and your jail time spent in the dark. You practice healing when you choose to restrain yourself from swinging wild in your rage. You practice healing when you choose to bleed your pain away by acts of kindness instead of compounding the agony through cruelty towards yourself or anyone nearby. You practice healing when you risk opening yourself to the prize at the center of a mistake instead of turning away for another round of I’m Such A Fuck-Up.

And by you practicing healing, I mean me, too.


I’m taking it one drawing at a time.

Emerald City Comic Con

What, another announcement? Yep, I'm shouting again. This time I would like to draw your attention towards the Emerald City Comic Con. I will be seated there at my very own table, right between the uber-talented Mark Tedin and the brilliant and bedazzling Brian Snoddy. My table? Z-06, thank you very much.

And here's the thing I'm excited to announce. I finally have a sketchbook for sale. It's a strange one, a very personal one; being the strange person that I am, it fits.

The Little Chapbook of Pain is a perfect-bound book of 140 pages with 84 pieces of black and white art sealed within a color cover. It will be selling for 10.00 at the convention, 14.99 after, and that's including shipping within the continental U.S. I'll have doodles in the first ten copies.

There will be Magic prints, originals and who knows what else, but having this little sketchbook is a big deal for me.


Here's how to find me.

Ready, set, GO!

Antifesto

It's time I gave you an update. 

Something happened to me in 2010. Something huge. 

January 15th came and suddenly I was 40 years and one day older than my dad had been when he died.  

That threw a switch in me. I have pulled the plug on my professional career. Too blunt? Okay, I've put it on indefinite hold. I do teach on the side for the Laguna College of Art and Design with a wonderful gent named Bobby Hernandez. That gives me just enough to keep the engines running. 

Why am I doing this?

2013 is the year I begin busting out my own stories. This January I completed a project called the Little Book of Pain. It's an eBook at present, available on iBooks; the Kindle versions will be uploaded as soon as they're ready. My first offering may seem like a strange way to start, all personal and soul-bearing and such, but I owe some of my healing to those who have dared to let me see their pain, and I want to repay that debt the best way I can. Kay Jamison, William Styron, Andrew Solomon, the anonymous voices in "A Music I No Longer Heard" by Leslie Simon and Jan Johnson: they showed me I wasn't alone. It's my hope the Little Book of Pain will have the same effect on someone else. I call it a "Shitstorm Inspirational". I started on this quest in 2010, the year I gained the distinction of being my own dad's elder, and it seemed appropriate that my first book should be about him, and me, and the Little Kid forever caught between us by his suicide in 1976.

There's much yet to be done for the LBP. I've got the Kindle versions to complete and the hard copy of the LBP to finish for the Kickstarter campaign. I don't think I will be done with this story for a very long time. It's taken me thirty years to realize I'm living the damn thing and I can do more than cope. I choose to thrive.


I've worked with others to help them tell their stories for more than 20 years. Now it's my turn. I'm off. I've got enough material to keep me occupied for the rest of my days. I aim to catch your curiosity and hold it tight. My next project is already building a head of steam. The prologue for my tale will appear as part of the Dead Anyway comic anthology. It will mark my first dip into the terror-filled world of comics.

It may not always be a smooth ride, mind you. But I promise you it won't be dull, either.



The Facebook Page for the Little Book of Pain:

TheLittleBookOfPain

I post news relating to my book there, art and such, but I also share things I find inspirational. Videos, animation, links to resources for depression and other mental health issues. There's a lingering sense of shame in our culture around mental illness. We've got to break that down. Depression can be treated. There are people who care and places where you can get help. The LBP page is my soapbox for issues like these. 


You can find the eBook here, on iTunes. I apologize to all those with Kindles! I will have the Kindle version up as soon as I am able.

The LBP on iTunes

Lastly, here's the Facebook Page for Dead Anyway, well worth checking out:


Dead Anyway

Friday on the Downhill Slide.

It's January, 2013. I am officially four years older than my dad. I made it.

I'm not sure what that means, or if it means anything at all. 

When I first began therapy my expectations were broad and shallow. I wanted to get my professional life back under control. I was tired of feeling sad all the time. There were moments when I was so angry it frightened me. I was exhausted from swinging like a pendulum between these two poles. 

Doctor, I'm broken. My dad was a shrink so I'm familiar with the schpiel: "the therapist only points in the right direction. It's up to the patient to walk the path." Yeah, fine, whatever. Fix me already.

 

I wanted to keep looking out to the horizon, same as always, Mr. Intellectual, suspended at a critical distance from himself. My therapist made me look down and see all the ankle-snapping potholes that perforated the tarmac underfoot. Awareness of potholes in the road--stage one, check. Stage two: avoid potholes, check. One, two, one, two, one, two.

Nothing worthwhile is easy. 

I don't want to revisit my dad's death every January, any more than I want to accept that I'll be a flat-butted hairy Viking for the rest of my days, but walking backwards through life will eventually get you decapitated, right? That's the key to the trouble. Turn the problem around until it makes sense. Get the perspective nailed down, lest every step lead to a tumble. 

This isn't about dad anymore. It hasn't been about him for decades. It's about me. All of it, from the darkest moments when I think about chasing after him to the brightest, when it seems like everything is possible and within my reach, this revolving storm that hits the same point of land every twelve months is what I have become, sui paternis. I am more than my father's son. I am four years off the map and still going.

Maybe that means as much as I want it to mean.

Quit Apologizing.

Hey.

I know you fucked up. I know that you know that, too. You blunder your way though life, through people. When you're blind--and you're blind most of the time, be honest, your regrets prove you have hindsight--you leave unintentional destruction in your wake. You leave behind an emergency room full of victims. Awareness amplifies the agony. You watch as you deliver the blow and you wonder if the day will ever come when you can be something other than a spectator to your own behavior. You'd put a vise clamp on your mouth if you could. You'd stay awake 23-7 if it meant you could do all the things that would make everyone happy. You'd do anything to make it all better.

Some broken things won't ever come back together.

Accept that you won't receive absolution for the wounds you've left behind. Be thankful when someone surprises you with forgiveness. Don't wear it too thin. Do more than promise to change. Make the effort to effect the change that's needed. You can be more than play at being an audience of one to your own stupid behavior.

Forgiveness runs through a thin cord. It's not infinitely strong. It can be worn out.

Forgiveness relieves. Actions heal.